Never, EVER give up. Not ever. Not EVER. Ever EVER!
I know it's practical for career women, but sneakers with suits? Jesus couldn't possibly weep harder than I did.
You have attained maturity; display it for us, if you please.
Can you burn me up with holy water? Poke me to death with your crucifix? Pelt me with communion wafers?
I was so furious I was actually dizzy with it. There were so many bitchy, sarcastic observations to make, I was having a sarcasm stroke. "My God! You people! You're - you're so stupid you're making my eyeballs throb. They're throbbing, dammit!
Has anyone ever told you that you lack focus?
Why is it suddenly uncool to spell? That's all I want to know.
Also,I loathe it when you refer to me as dude" Eric Sinclair to Betsy
He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes.
It's nice to see you again, Laura." "Thank you, Mrs. T-" "No, no, no. Please, my name is-" "Mud," I suggested. "Mud Barfbag Taylor. Call her Asshat for short." ~Laura, Antonia, Betsy
Interesting shade #23 Lush Golden Blonde highlights. Heyyyyyy.... The woman in the awful suit was me! The woman in the cheap shoes was me!
I could have gone to medical school, I said. Except for all the math and stuff.
We have souls. Sure we do. Otherwise we'd do bad things all the time. You know, like politicians.
I've been stabbed before. Barely a week ago, in fact. AND I've been audited, AND I come from a broken home. In short - no offense, shorty - you don't scare me.
Wow, girlfriend, you're incompatible with life! And here I thought I was just incompatible with pink.
My my Laura Goodman. I must say that is a charming name for a charming young lady." "Eric's old." I broke in. "Really really old." "Er— really?" Laura asked. "Gosh you don't look even out of your thirties." "Tons of face-lifts. He's a surgical addict. I'm trying to get him help." I added defensively when they both gave me strange looks.
I've always assumed he'd be around to be, you know, yelled at and taken for granted. And of course I was wrong. Nobody's going to put up with that forever.
He snarled at me. "This isn't over yet, Betsy." "Excellent," I said. "I would also have accepted 'You haven't seen the last of me' and 'You'll regret this'.
I—I adore you, too. Well, I don't know if I adore you. That's not really the word I'd use. But I—I—" I managed to wrench it out. God, this was hard! "I love you." "Of course you do," he said, totally unsurprised. "WHAT? I finally tell you my deepest, most personal feelings and you're all, 'Yeah, I already got that memo'? This, this is why you drive me nuts! This is why it's so hard to tell you things! I take it back.
The vampire bible, bound in human skin, written in blood, and full of prophecies that were never wrong. Trouble was, if you read the thing too long, it drove you nuts. Not "I'm having a bad day and feel bitchy" nuts or PMS nuts. "I think I'll commit felony assault on my friends and rape my boyfriend" nuts.
Yeah, well, it's been a super fun week. And by 'super fun' I mean 'horrible and endless'.
You'll pay," she said stonily. "You won't be like this by this time tomorrow." "Bored and pissed off? God, I hope not.
... friends are such a mixed blessing.
I'm in a Road Runner cartoon, Sinclair. And I'm the coyote.
Elizabeth Anne Taylor April 25, 1974 - April 25, 2004 Our Sweetheart, Only resting
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